


The Rewards of Patience

by WritestuffLee



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-07
Updated: 2007-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan seduces his master after Naboo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rewards of Patience

_ _

_Prelude_

My master will kiss anything.

I know this for a fact; I’ve seen him do it. He’s inordinately fond of infants, human and otherwise, and will cuddle and pet them for hours until they’re trusting and dazed with pleasure from his big hands, secure in his warm arms. He loves their sweet smell. I’ve watched him nuzzle soft ears and plant a kiss on the crown of their sleeping heads. When I was much younger, I’ve felt him do it to me when he thought I was sleeping.

If only he’d kiss me now that I’m grown, now I’m awake.

By instinct, wherever we are, young ones find me. They play at my feet, climb into my lap, pups and kits and children. They find me comforting and comfortable. Something to climb on, something to curl up on. I hold and pet them obligingly. It’s an honor to be so trusted, a pleasure to be in their company.

And all the while, Obi-Wan watches.

When he was younger, this was his place, and it was his sweet hair I kissed. Does he think I don’t know what he wants? That I would not happily oblige? He has only to ask.

* * *

_Before_

The braid is gone, symbol of my years with this man who has been parent, teacher, brother-in-arms, friend. I saved it for him. I take his hand, wrap the length of hair around it. We’re of a height with me kneeling, him still in the hover chair. Our eyes meet. His face is drawn, gaunt. His beautiful face. Almost lost.

I still feel the touch of his fingers on my cheek in those moments that were almost his last.

“I’m very proud of you, Obi-Wan. But I have no gift for you,” he says.

I smile, lean forward. “You do.” _  
_

He saved my life, not just this time, but more often than he knows. This latest incident is only more obvious and is among the acts that earned him his knighthood in the field. I’ve watched him grow in body and heart and power, in intelligence and prowess. He would make any master proud.

He was the first thing I thought of when I woke from the bacta. Not Anakin, not the Sith. Obi-Wan, my beautiful padawan.

He leans over me in my chair, presses his warm, soft lips to mine.

I think all the gifts are for me today.

* * *

_During_

His lips are soft, dry, warm. Mobile. The first touch sends a thrill right through me. My heart speeds up. I think his does too. A moment of chasteness, and then they open under mine, inviting me in. He tastes . . . he tastes, like spring air among old trees, like new wine, like, like Qui. Like himself. I never knew . . . I never thought . . . oh . . .

The facial hair tickles. Why hadn't I considered that? Perhaps because I never imagined . . . oh, but I did. I've imagined this first kiss over and over. And it's nothing like I thought it would be.

It's better.

 

I feel drunk already and his lips have only just touched mine. He's licked his lips first. They're wet and firm but his touch is tender. Perhaps he thinks I'll break. I want to devour him. We've waited so long, and he's still so hesitant, unsure of his welcome. I tease him, just a little, and hear a soft noise. Surprise? Or eagerness? The latter, I hope.

Another noise, as I open my mouth to him, as his tongue slides in to explore and gives me access too. Suddenly, we are vulnerable together.  Wanting each other. What could be better?

 

Qui-Gon’s hand comes up to curl around the back of his padawan’s--his former padawan’s--head, the other hand still wrapped in that former padawan’s braid. The brush cut will grow out in time, but already it is silken in his fingers, as the braid had been when he had plaited it. The boy--no, Obi-Wan is a young man now, a young man making ridiculous noises as he plunders Qui-Gon’s mouth for the first time. He sounds as if he has found a feast after starvation.

Then Qui-Gon pushes back into Obi-Wan’s mouth and the sounds of delight turn to a muffled groan that matches the deep, vibrating purr in Qui-Gon’s chest. Obi-Wan’s hand cups his cheek, slides around the back of his neck and they hold each other to the kiss, neither of them willing or wanting to let go, to stop.

Qui-Gon feels something frozen in his heart begin to melt, waking itself from a long sleep. It has been years since he’s had a lover, had anyone, anything but quick fucks, single nights, and trysts with his hand. And he’s wanted this particular lover for a long time.

 

Obi-Wan feels mostly amazement, and the wildfire of arousal. He hears a little voice in the back of his head shouting “Sweet Force! you’re kissing your _master_!” And his master--Qui-Gon will always be his master--seems to like it, too, to not want it to end as much as he. How astounding. All these years, that possibility has been too good to hope for.

And yet here is Qui-Gon pushing back into his mouth, taking possession, tasting, exploring. Obi-Wan, already on his knees, is grateful for the big hand cupping the back of his head, holding him up. He feels undone, just by this joining of mouths, by the flicker of Qui-Gon’s tongue against his palate. He hears himself moan quietly, hears something--a purr, an growl?--deep in Qui-Gon’s chest and that makes his limbs even more watery than they already are. He shivers under the assault.

Qui-Gon’s hand, the one with his braid wrapped around it, strokes his cheek. He feels the tickle of his own hair with the roughness of Qui-Gon’s fingers. He gropes for that hand, interlaces their fingers, holds it to his face. Obi-Wan is almost delirious with happiness and sensation.

* * *

_After_

It’s Qui-Gon who breaks the kiss, finally, leaning back in the hoverchair, his heart pounding.

“We have to stop,” he murmurs with regret. He wants the kiss to go on as much as Obi-Wan does.

Obi-Wan smiles at him, both triumphant and guilty, and smooths Qui-Gon’s hair. “Too much excitement?” he says with both concern and mischief in his voice, the wry mischief Qui-Gon has loved for all these years.

“I’m afraid so. The healers would have me back in their clutches if they knew how hard you’re making my heart work.”

Obi-Wan’s look is wholly triumphant now though not smug. “Can’t have that. They’ve only just let you loose. But I’m glad you were sitting down. Do you want some help?”

They are home, finally, after Qui-Gon’s ten in a bacta tank on Naboo and slow recovery afterwards. And though Obi-Wan has been knighted and debriefed, he has not yet been assigned a new mission, perhaps in deference to his former master. Qui-Gon will need some help yet, and who better to provide it than someone who knows him so well?

“That would be a kindness,” Qui-Gon agrees, taking Obi-Wan’s hand and gingerly levering himself out of the chair. He is stiff and sore yet, weak-kneed, not sure of his balance, the wound still tender to the touch though entirely healed now. Walking pulls the ravaged muscles of his abdomen, but he must do it nonetheless, even if it is only short walks around his own quarters, where they are now.

His quarters, or still theirs? He wonders.

“Would you like me to stay?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Have you moved your things out?” Qui-Gon says in surprise.

“Well, no,” the younger man says somewhat sheepishly. “But I probably should.”

“Perhaps that’s a decision we can leave until later,” Qui-Gon replies.

Obi-Wan, as he has for years, turns to the business of making his master comfortable and producing dinner. Qui-Gon waves him off and wanders slowly around the rooms, for exercise and to reacquaint himself. His first task is to find a box for Obi-Wan’s braid and he rummages in his drawers until a temporary one comes to light. He’ll find something more permanent, something worthy, later. The rooms feel as though he has been gone a long time, and changed somehow in the interim, though many of his missions have lasted longer than this convalescence. The rooms had been musty at first but their presence has changed that, as has Obi-Wan’s fiddling with the climate controls. Qui-Gon touches everything: Obi-Wan’s favorite chair, his own, the few objects of meaning to them, and finally settles himself at the table.

He has only a short wait before Obi-Wan sets something warm, tasty, and filling before him that his recalcitrant digestion can stand. It’s far better than the healer’s gruel and he says so, gratefully.

“This is really why you want to keep me around, isn’t it? So you won’t have to eat the refectory food,” Obi-Wan asserts slyly.

“Of course,” Qui-Gon agrees. Then, bluntly:  “And for the taste of your mouth. I could live on that.”

Obi-Wan smirks. “Could you? Perhaps there will be some for dessert, then.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I’m likely to be allowed for a while, so I hope it’s a generous helping,” he says, amazed at the plaintiveness in his own voice. He hasn’t wanted someone like this in a long time and his current weakness frustrates him. He wonders, too, at his own need, and the sudden fear of lost chances this brush with death has given him.

Obi-Wan touches his hand. “As much as you like. Whenever you like.”

 

Which is how Obi-Wan finds himself in Qui-Gon’s lap after dinner.

They clean up companionably, Qui-Gon’s movements slow and with a strange tentativeness to them, even as he stacks plates on the shelf with the Force.  Obi-Wan knows he’s been told not to lift anything more than a few kilos, or reach above his head. He has a special diet for a time, and a regimen of careful exercise.

And he tires easily. Obi-Wan can see it in his face even now. Just the journey back here from the healers halls, even in a hover chair, followed by dinner and a brief washing up, has worn him out. To be fair, there was some other excitement as well, and that seems to have taken its own toll. Qui-Gon is unusually quiet and pensive.

“Go sit, Master,” Obi-Wan urges, sending him off to his favorite chair. “I’ll be along shortly.”

“Before I fall asleep, please,” Qui-Gon grumbles as he turns away, more impatient with himself than Obi-Wan.

It takes longer than he’d hoped to finish, thanks to the stickiness of their meal, but Obi-Wan finds his master waiting bright-eyed and . . . hungry.

“Dessert?” Obi-Wan asks, once again leaning over Qui-Gon in his chair, bracing himself on the arms. The little voice at the back of his head shrieks, “Little gods! Now you’re _flirting_ with him! Shamelessly!” Quite so. The inner dialogue paints a predatory smile on his lips.

And yet his master seems to like that too. He closes his fingers around one of Obi-Wan’s wrists and pulls, gently, until Obi-Wan is forced sideways onto his lap to keep his balance. It’s like the pull of gravity, inexorable and natural--natural that it should happen, natural that he should be sitting here. Needless to say, he doesn’t fight it. Qui-Gon’s arms go around his waist and warm lips nuzzle the side of neck, beneath his ear. A soft gust of air makes him shiver as Qui-Gon half growls, half murmurs his name then begins to nibble.

It’s electrifying.

At 25, Obi-Wan is certainly not a virgin--he made sure of that at 16 with Siri, who was eager to help him out--nor inexperienced since then. But his partners have been friends here in temple, and chance encounters in the field and on leave. They have all been people he’s liked and been attracted to, but none of them have evoked the depth of feeling in him that Qui-Gon has, even his closest friends. That makes this man’s touch completely different.

He feels a strange combination of shyness and boldness with Qui-Gon and realizes he’s discovering the difference between mere physical arousal and desire. There is so much more at stake than just the physical act, and yet that act and what leads up to it are the expression of the feelings behind it. It’s like learning another language and fearing unintentional offense.

Obi-Wan sighs and wriggles closer, one arm threading around Qui-Gon’s neck, the other hand slipping inside his tunic to lie over his heart. He flicks Qui-Gon’s nipple with his thumb and gets a gratifying gasp. One of Qui-Gon’s hands turns his head, and his mouth covers Obi-Wan’s in a crushing kiss.

Apparently, he’s found the right words.

 

The taste of skin under Qui-Gon’s lips is intoxicating. Obi-Wan smells of clean sweat, salt, soap and something that is only Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon could eat him alive and might try if it weren’t for the crude matter of his own body. Despite the electrifying bundle of flesh on his lap--warm and wriggly and very much aroused--Qui-Gon feels exhaustion creeping over him. But he cannot stop nibbling at the soft skin of Obi-Wan’s neck. He wants this moment to last. He wants it to tell Obi-Wan everything about what he feels: the slow building of affection into love, the years of waiting, the wonder at having that feeling returned.

He seems to be doing something right, because the younger man shifts closer and slides an arm around his neck, then works a hand beneath the layers of his tunic. Qui-Gon once had his heart jolted back into motion in the healers hall and the touch of Obi-Wan’s hand feels something like that. It makes him gasp in shock, even before Obi-Wan’s thumb finds his nipple.

Qui-Gon wants desperately to strip the clothes off Obi-Wan and fuck him right here, and knows he can’t. His spirit is willing, even eager, but the flesh is abominably weak, literally. Walking, rising from his chair, even lifting his arms pulls uncomfortably at his damaged muscles, the integument holding his guts together. “No sex,” the healers have told him and he knows they’re right. Only days before, the injunction would have meant little. Now it means everything. To be presented with something he’s waited for, hoped for, for years and to not be able to take what’s being offered, well, that would try the patience of anyone, even a master.

So he takes what he can. With three fingers gripping Obi-Wan’s chin, he turns the young man’s face and covers his mouth, pressing them together as though one of them had stopped breathing. Obi-Wan opens to the flick of his tongue, melting against him, into the kiss, as Qui-Gon ravages his mouth. This time he tastes salt and tea and spices in the kiss as well as Obi-Wan himself. Nothing has ever tasted so good. He licks the inside of Obi-Wan’s mouth as though it were a treat that will melt in the heat and must be savored quickly. Obi-Wan inhales noisily through his nose and actually whimpers at the assault. Somehow, without breaking the kiss, he shifts his position on Qui-Gon’s lap, straddling him, weight balanced on his own knees. Their hands come up at the same time, cupping each other’s faces, tongues pushing back and forth. He can feel the young man trembling with eagerness in his arms.

 

It’s Obi-Wan who pulls back this time, but not entirely. He can hardly bear to. Already, he’s painfully hard and he wants to finish this, follow the kiss to its logical conclusion, but knows they both must wait. It would be selfish to push this farther, and it’s foolish to taunt each other this way, though Force knows Qui-Gon seems to have no more control or desire to stop than he does.

“I--I don’t think we should do this. I don’t think I can do this,” he amends. “We’re winding each other up for something we can’t have yet.”

His master slumps back in his chair, hands falling from their place around Obi-Wan’s face. Qui-Gon’s obvious disappointment breaks Obi-Wan’s heart at the same time it’s deeply gratifying.

“You’re right, of course,” Qui-Gon agrees sadly. “And I’m a fool. It’s cruel to tease you this way when I can’t--”

Obi-Wan, his hands having dropped away when Qui-Gon’s did, raises one again now and touches his master’s lips, silencing him. “No. Not cruel. Not any more than I am to you. But we should stop. And you should rest. I can see how tired you are. I can feel it. Let me help you to bed.”

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow, devilry back in his expression. “If I didn’t know better, I might say you were propositioning me, Padawan.”

“You are incorrigible, Master. And are you so sure you do know better?” Obi-Wan replies slyly, unable to resist the opening, as he slides back off the chair only a little hindered by his erection. He’ll have to do something about that, even if it means meditating it away. He’s much prefer to make use of it, but that seems unlikely.

 

Qui-Gon follows him, half-hard himself, sliding forward in the chair and letting Obi-Wan help him to his feet. It would be humiliating, had been when the healers helped him, but Obi-Wan makes it seem as matter-of-fact as helping Qui-Gon off with his boots after a long day. He’s grateful for that but not surprised. Obi-Wan has always enjoyed doing small services for his master; Qui-Gon half suspects it was his way of both showing the feelings that were forbidden expression before his knighting and sublimating them until he felt able to reveal them.

Now, he follows Qui-Gon to his room and turns the bed down while Qui-Gon washes up. Qui-Gon finds him waiting, leaning on the edge of the tall bed, when he comes out of the fresher with his face and hands washed and his teeth cleaned. Clearly, Obi-Wan has been trying to quell his own arousal without much success, as he turns a chagrined smile in Qui-Gon’s direction. Qui-Gon frowns, not at his former apprentice, but at his own actions. Obi-Wan is right. They’ve been winding each other up, but Qui-Gon at least should have known better. Well, truthfully, at his age, Obi-Wan should too, and does, but Qui-Gon feels at least as responsible for the younger man’s state as he is himself. One of them is a master, after all.

He wants to laugh at himself then, for couching his own desire and need in those terms. He’s looking for an excuse and he knows it. Worse, he doesn’t care. All those years of mastery pitted against all those years of waiting.

Healers be damned. Mastery be damned.

Qui-Gon walks across the room to him, a matter of a few steps, and leans down to kiss him again, just lightly this time. What draws the gasp from Obi-Wan is not the kiss, but a hand cupping his groin, fingers tracing the outline of his erection.

“Before you help me to bed, perhaps I can help you with this,” Qui-Gon says in a rumble he hasn’t heard from himself in years.  He steps back and thumps ungracefully to his knees, wincing a little at the pull on his abdominal muscles and the force of his kneecaps hitting the floor.

“Master--wait! What are you--but the healers said--” Obi-Wan’s alarm is clear, and endearing.

“The healers said ‘no sex’ in a generic sort of way,” Qui-Gon replies serenely, carefully opening the fastenings of Obi-Wan’s trousers. “It seems obvious they meant no energetic penetration activities,” he continues, sliding them down Obi-Wan’s legs, where they pool at his feet. His own sophistry amazes him. “I’m sure a little careful fellatio will be fairly harmless. Especially since I’m already down here.” He slides his hands beneath the waistband of Obi-Wan’s small clothes and pushes them down, working them carefully around his erection to join his trousers at his feet. “I know you’ll help me up again,” and Qui-Gon grins wickedly at his former padawan.

Obi-Wan trembles harder under his hands. “How could I refuse you?” he whispers, and runs his fingers carefully through Qui-Gon’s loosened hair.

“Take the rest off, the tunics, if you would, then,” Qui-Gon says in a low voice. “I want to see all of you. And I’m not supposed to reach.”

Obi-Wan kicks away the pool of cloth around his feet and in short order drops sash, stola, outer and inner tunics atop it. He leans back against the edge of the bed, legs wide, arms braced behind him, gloriously naked, furiously aroused.

Qui-Gon drinks him in, from the red-gold brush of hair on his head, to his bare feet, and everything in between. It’s the in-between that is so tantalizing: clearly the body of a man in his youthful peak, with a trim, solid musculature covered by creamy skin, a spatter of freckles on the shoulders and elsewhere. A thatch of that red hair on the chest; a line of it from navel to groin; another, thicker nest of it, wiry, fiery red at his groin, thinning out again but covering his thighs and calves: a man’s body. And between those long, muscular thighs, a man’s genitals.

Obi-Wan’s cock stands up against his belly, the foreskin rolled back to reveal the purpling head. The pale skin has flushed a deep red, and his sac is high and tight beneath it. The head is moist and a drop of fluid bubbles from the slit as he watches. He hears Obi-Wan panting lightly.

Gingerly, Qui-Gon moves forward a bit and runs his hands slowly up Obi-Wan’s legs from ankle to thighs, to where his buttocks rest against the edge of the bed. He leans forward and rubs his cheek and beard over Obi-Wan’s cock, feeling him shudder, hearing a soft “oh!” as he gathers that musky scent of Obi-Wan. His face comes away a little damp and with that scent thick in his beard and his nostrils. It makes his head spin, that smell, realizing where it comes from. This is Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan letting Qui-Gon make love to him. Wanting it. He licks up the underside of Obi-Wan’s cock, tasting beloved skin and flesh, teases the spot below the crown with the tip of his tongue for a moment, then the slit, bubbling more fluid like a spring, and closes his mouth around the head and sucks.

The resulting shriek is gratifying, if startling.

 

Qui-Gon comes out of the fresher with his hair down, the long strands of bronze and steel grey falling over his shoulders. Obi-Wan smells soap and toothpaste and the remnants of the healers antiseptic halls. The few minutes he’s been gone have not been enough to deal with his own arousal. Just standing here waiting like this, being in this room, seems to be arousing, as though he were actually waiting for a tryst. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for now, not until Qui-Gon kisses him again, and covers his aching genitals with one of those big hands and says, “Perhaps I can help you with this.”

Then he knows he’s been waiting all his life for this. Perhaps Qui-Gon has too.

Before he can stop the older man, his master his gone to his knees in front of Obi-Wan. Though he’s unable to hide the wince the movement causes, he waves Obi-Wan’s protests away blithely while undressing him from the waist down. When he’s done and Obi-Wan is standing in a pile of his own clothing, Qui-Gon says, “I know you’ll help me up again,” and turns an innocent eye on him.

The little voice in Obi-Wan’s head is almost hyperventilating. “He’s going to give you a blow job! Your master! Your _master_ is going to give you--you?--a blow job?” _Yes,_ Obi-Wan thinks. _Yes he is._ It makes him want to laugh hysterically. Unable to stop himself, Obi-Wan runs his hands through the thick mass of Qui-Gon’s hair. “How could I refuse you?” he wonders as much to himself as his master. How could he? He owes this man everything, and wants to give it to him, wants to share it with him.

So he takes the rest of his clothing off, at Qui-Gon’s request, without artfulness or seduction, though there is both in the pose he affects afterwards: braced against the bed with his feet planted wide, leaning back on his arms. His cock sprang free of his small clothes with alacrity and is standing upright below his navel. He wants to stroke himself, but he’s afraid his own touch will set him off, and he wants it to be Qui-Gon’s touch that does that.

Then he realizes his master is observing him, scanning from head to foot. It ought to make him self-conscious, or preening, or something. Instead, he feels the weight of that gaze as he always has: not just appraisal, but pleasure, and something of pride perhaps in the fashioning, and in the end product. And something new: hunger. He’s never felt so desirable, so wanted in his life. The thought is a little frightening. And suddenly he feels a vulnerability he hadn’t yet, in the possibility of rejection.

And then that seems unlikely, as Qui-Gon’s hands glide over the backs of his legs and he leans in to rub his face against Obi-Wan’s groin, marking him, rolling in his scent. The wiry hairs of Qui-Gon’s beard are rough against the tender skin, chafing deliciously. The beard catches Obi-Wan’s scrotum in a pleasant torture. He barely realizes he’s making noise, the sensation is so extraordinary. No one has ever done this before, at least not to him. He realizes suddenly that loving Qui-Gon will probably open up a world of experience and sensation to him that he would otherwise take a lifetime to amass. In this way, he will still be Obi-Wan’s master in fact, not just in name. Somehow he finds that reassuring.

Then he can’t think anymore because Qui-Gon’s tongue is licking up the underside of his cock, the tip of it tickling the crown, delving into the slit. And then those warm lips close over the head and suck a shriek out of him that startles both of them. Obi-Wan claps a hand to his mouth while Qui-Gon leans back and chuckles.

“Don’t stifle yourself on my account,” Qui-Gon says, and goes back to work. Obi-Wan’s cock is immediately engulfed in warmth and suction, in the delicate scrape of teeth, in the quick and repeated twist of rough fingers following it, and finally in the tight passage of Qui-Gon’s throat which closes around him as Qui-Gon swallows. Obi-Wan’s balls tighten and his groin fills with a rush of heat that fires sparks up his spine. He can’t stop himself from thrusting deeper into that wonderful mouth. A cry that sounds like pain crawls up his throat, becomes a sob when he lets it loose. He’s barely aware of his hands gripping Qui-Gon’s shoulders as he pours a stream of semen into the man’s mouth, shuddering and nearly weeping with the intensity of it. He’s never come with such violence or so much overwhelming emotion. He feels swamped with love and amazement and gratitude. It’s not his first time, but it should have been. It’s what he wanted it to be and what it never could have been without this man.

He buckles into Qui-Gon’s lap, straddling his knees again, arms going around him in gratitude and wonder, holding on as though Qui-Gon were rescuing him. Qui-Gon cradles his head, rubs his back soothingly, rains small kisses over his hair, his cheek, his neck, his shoulder, murmuring, “beautiful man, beautiful man,” like a meditation chant, or something to soothe a small child with. He’s gasping and sweaty and weak as a newborn. He’ll never be able to get himself off the floor, let alone Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan feels as if he’s been drugged, wrapped in a sweet lassitude where he’s content to be acted upon and not the actor. He understands now why the young ones flock to his master, with his big, careful hands. There’s something narcotic in the touch: so gentle, but with an underlying sense of power signaling safety. And something else he suspects is only for him: intimacy and desire.

The little voice in his head is just gibbering wordlessly at having found the key to the mysteries.

“Oh, _sweet fuck_ ,” Obi-Wan sighs finally with great feeling. Qui-Gon laughs.

“The next best thing, at least. Are you always . . . so . . . responsive?” Qui-Gon asks him, his hands still stroking slowly up and down Obi-Wan’s back.

 “With other people? No,” he says ruefully. “With you? I don’t know. I suspect so. It’s not the same, with you.”

 “Ah,” Qui-Gon responds. “Good. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be.”

In those words Obi-Wan hears his master’s own fear of failure and rejection and finds it completely absurd. He leans back and pushes the hair back out of Qui-Gon’s face with tender fingers, kisses him gently. “How could it be? There’s no one else like you,” he murmurs and kisses Qui-Gon again. “Let’s get you to bed.”

 

Helping him to his feet, Obi-Wan eyes the unmistakable bulge in Qui-Gon’s trousers. Truthfully, its presence surprises Qui-Gon. He’d been ill for so long that he hadn’t expected to be this easily aroused. But the smell and taste of Obi-Wan apparently are potent aphrodisiacs. He hasn’t felt this randy in years. And he’s not quite sure what to do about it.

“We’ll have to do something about that, too,” Obi-Wan remarks, echoing Qui-Gon’s thoughts as he turns his master against the bed in his former place and begins to help Qui-Gon out of his clothes. Each layer of clothing comes away with chaste little pecks against his lips and newly revealed patches of skin. Obi-Wan first folds Qui-Gon’s clothing then his own now hopelessly rumpled ensemble and puts it aside, while Qui-Gon gets into bed. Gods, he is bone-tired. How can he still be so aroused when he’s nearly unconscious? Obi-Wan turns in time to swing his feet up onto the bed, then begins to pull the covers up as he lies down.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “You’re not--?”

“I wasn’t sure--”

Qui-Gon turns gingerly on his side and holds out a hand. “Why would you think otherwise? Come lie down with me, love,” he says. “This is your bed now, too, if you want it.”

Obi-Wan grins and climbs in beside him.

 

Qui-Gon grimaces full-out as Obi-Wan starts to help him to his feet. This is not an easy position to rise from when your abdominal muscles are weak.

“Use your legs,” he says, finding it odd that he should have to tell Qui-Gon this. Old habits, he supposes. “Lean on me.”

“Quite right,” Qui-Gon agrees ruefully and starts over, rising to a kneeling position from sitting on his heels, balancing himself on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and pushing himself upright. There’s no hiding either the pain it causes him or that Qui-Gon is as aroused as Obi-Wan had been. The bulge in his trousers is so much larger and emphatic.

“We’ll have to do something about that, too,” Obi-Wan observes, not sure whether he means the discomfort or the arousal. “Here, stand here, and I’ll help you with your clothes,” he says, and Qui-Gon complies. He’s either strangely docile or more exhausted than even Obi-Wan realizes.

Or perhaps he just likes the idea of Obi-Wan disrobing him. There’s a thought.

Qui-Gon’s belt and sash are only loosely fastened and tied, in deference to his injury, and they come away easily.  Obi-Wan sets the one aside and folds the other reverently and lays it on the bed. “May I?” he asks Qui-Gon, who nods with amusement as Obi-Wan reaches to untie his outer tunic. That done, he slips it from Qui-Gon’s shoulders and folds it too, placing it with the sash. Qui-Gon’s cooperation earns him a chaste kiss.

Obi-Wan slides the under-tunic up Qui-Gon’s torso, slowly and probably with more skin to skin contact than necessary, though Qui-Gon doesn’t object. Then he disentangles first one arm then the other, lifts it over Qui-Gon’s head, leans up for another kiss, and turns to fold this piece of clothing. There’s no sign of the injury that nearly killed him; the bacta has taken care of that. But there are other scars, older ones, revealing a body hard-used by duty. Obi-Wan kisses each one of those, too.

Qui-Gon makes no move to even open the fastenings on his trousers, and his face is a study in hard-won Jedi serenity, so Obi-Wan unfastens them himself, but not before leaning in to place kisses on Qui-Gon’s mouth, his neck, his collarbones, over his heart.

Then he takes Qui-Gon’s pants off.

The very idea has the little voice in his head gibbering again. It really is quite an idiotic little voice.

First the trousers, then the small clothes, which Obi-Wan tosses into the laundry after folding Qui-Gon’s pants. His master is already climbing into bed when Obi-Wan turns around again and he lifts the man’s legs and starts to pull the covers up as Qui-Gon lies down. Qui-Gon stops him.

“You’re not--?”

“I wasn’t sure--”

Qui-Gon turns carefully on his side and holds out a hand. “Why would you think otherwise? Come lie down with me, love,” he says. “This is your bed now, too, if you want it.”

Oh, he’s waited years to hear that.

It’s a large bed, made for a large person, which Qui-Gon clearly is. Obi-Wan can’t imagine a full-grown Qui-Gon Jinn having to sleep in the small, narrow padawan bed he’s occupied for the last 13 years. The thought makes him smile.

“Amused at something?” Qui-Gon murmurs.

“Just thinking of you hanging off the sides and end of a padawan bunk.”

“I did, too. Dooku didn’t believe in coddling his padawans. Or cuddling them.”

“Unlike you.”

“No, I don’t believe in coddling them, either, though I don’t see the need to make them actively suffer. But I firmly believe in cuddling. If you move a little closer, I’ll prove it.”

Obi-Wan does, and Qui-Gon’s erection presses against his belly, hot and hard, his arms pulling Obi-Wan closer. He can’t stop his hips from rocking against Qui-Gon’s and feels an answering movement aborted by pain. That won’t do. He reaches down between them and wraps his hand around Qui-Gon’s turgid organ, “Lie still,” he says. “Let me take care of that.”

 

Qui-Gon gasps and shudders, more affected than he expected to be by this new intimacy. Obi-Wan’s hand curls around him and begins a slow, teasing glide, up and down. On the upstroke, his thumb skates across the head of Qui-Gon’s cock and into the slit, which bubbles fluid at that touch. It’s a lighter and slower touch than he usually likes, but it’s thrilling in its own way to have Obi-Wan exploring his body. There’s a remarkably tender strength in that hand, but it lets go for a moment to push him onto his back and strip the covers back. Then Obi-Wan leans up on his elbow and takes him in hand again. “Show me what you want, how you like it,” he says, his voice seductively husky.

“Just touch me,” Qui-Gon tells him and closes his eyes, giving himself into Obi-Wan’s capable hands. Whatever he does is sure to lead to pleasure.

“It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?” Obi-Wan whispers in his ear. “While I was out practice-fucking, you’ve just been waiting, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon admits, for some reason a little embarrassed by his confession. Obi-Wan’s hand glides down his cock again, to the root, then up, squeezing and pulling. It’s almost unbearably slow, but firm enough and with the calluses on Obi-Wan’s hands, very stimulating. Mostly, though, it’s different: not his own hand, not any long-gone partner or lover. Uniquely Obi-Wan.

“I’ll try to make it worth your while, then,” Obi-Wan tells him.

He starts with nuzzling little licks to the side of his neck, interspersed with nips that jolt through Qui-Gon’s nerves like electric shocks, then work their way down to the join of neck and shoulder. There, Obi-Wan sucks a passion mark into evidence and licks at it, while Qui-Gon clutches at the sheets and tries not to strain his injured muscles.

More nibbles follow, across his collarbones, his shoulders. Obi-Wan’s tongue dips into the hollow of his throat. It seems to fascinate him and Qui-Gon tilts his head back to allow him better access. It feels decadent somehow to have such lavish attention paid to such a nondescript part of him, until he thinks of the attention he’d like to lavish on the cleft of Obi-Wan’s chin. By then, Obi-Wan has found a nipple and begun to lick. The sensation goes straight to Qui-Gon’s groin and he feels his balls tighten. He wants more. Obi-Wan’s touch is still frustratingly light.

So when the bite comes, it’s just what he needs. “Yes! Like that,” he groans and curls a hand around the back of Obi-Wan’s head, holding him there to bite his nipple again. At the same time, Obi-Wan’s hand speeds up and his grip tightens and he hits the rhythm and pressure Qui-Gon likes. It’s not long before the alternating bites and licks to his nipples and the skill of Obi-Wan’s hand push him up to a plateau of arousal, toward its edge, and then over it with a shout and a shudder that should be painful but isn’t. Obi-Wan milks his orgasm out of him as Qui-Gon pants and groans and finally sighs and subsides. He’s tingling with endorphins, exalted, filled with a rush of love for this beautiful young man beside him, who is grinning like a bandit as he wipes his hand and uses a corner of the sheet to clean him up. Obi-Wan leans over and kisses him again, lightly, sweetly, with quick, open-mouthed, nibbling pecks, and draws the covers up around them both again.

With a groan, Qui-Gon rolls over and reaches for him, and Obi-Wan moves into his arms, tangling their legs. He wriggles until Qui-Gon’s head is tucked under his chin, cradled in his arms.

“Go to sleep, Qui,” he whispers and kisses the top of his head, holding him close but gently.

Qui-Gon wonders if Obi-Wan knows how odd this reversal of positions is, and yet how right it feels. He pulls Obi-Wan closer, his arms around the younger man’s waist as they lie facing each other. Then that’s all he thinks as, wrapped in afterglow and Obi-Wan’s arms, he falls into sleep.

 

Obi-Wan listens as his master’s breathing falls into the steady, slow pattern of sleep. He needs this, Obi-Wan knows, but he needed loving even more. Sleep is always available, one way or the other; love, on the other hand, is not so easily found, especially for Jedi. They’ve waited long enough, almost too long, and nearly missed their chance.

He kisses the top of Qui-Gon’s head again, remembering the feel and taste of Qui-Gon’s skin, how he responded like a man long-deprived of a lover’s touch, with fire and need, even while he was holding himself back because of his injury. It makes him want to know what Qui-Gon is like when he doesn’t have to be careful.

There is so much he wants to do to and with this man yet, so much he doesn’t know about him. Does Qui-Gon prefer to top exclusively, or would he bottom as well? Does he even like penetration? Obi-Wan hopes so. Sometime soon, he wants to bury himself in the tight heat of this man’s body until they become one. He wants to feel those long, thick fingers inside him, stroking over his prostate, and eventually, that ridiculously large but completely proportional cock, too, stretching and filling him until he’s not sure where Qui-Gon’s body ends and his begins. He wants to explore and taste every inch of this body he’s holding, and kiss the man unconscious. He wants all that and everything else he can’t yet imagine. He wants it for the rest of their lives.

How amazing to be trusted with the gift of another’s body, another’s heart. Like the moment when Qui-Gon surrendered himself to Obi-Wan’s touch without demands. How astounding to allow that. He kisses Qui-Gon’s hair a third time, and settles into sleep himself. He’s waited this long. He can wait a bit more.


End file.
